


We All Have Our Choices of Sisters

by Cinaed



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Female Characters, Female Friendship, Gen, Military Training, Pre-Canon, War Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-18
Updated: 2010-10-18
Packaged: 2017-10-12 18:31:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/127804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinaed/pseuds/Cinaed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rebecca meets Riza Hawkeye one humid, sweltering day at the tail-end of summer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We All Have Our Choices of Sisters

**Author's Note:**

  * For [glamaphonic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/glamaphonic/gifts).



> Written for fma_ladyfest on LJ. Thanks goes out to wickedtrue for the excellent beta job! The title comes from [I Wish I Had More Sisters](http://poemhunter.blogspot.com/2010/09/i-wish-i-had-more-sisters.html) by Brenda Shaughnessy.

**I.**  

Rebecca meets Riza Hawkeye one humid, sweltering day at the tail-end of summer. Days like these, Rebecca wishes the miltary academy was stationed at Briggs, or at least up north. Sure, there she'd be freezing and having to deal with Drachma, but here, a few miles outside South City, she's roasting instead. 

Rebecca has already stripped down to the bare minimum allowed by academy regulations, but sweat still trickles down her face and burns her eyes. She can feel the sun on the back of her neck, the pressure of it harsh and unyielding. She's not looking forward to the sunburn tomorrow. 

The rifle is hot in her hands; it stings a little as she handles the weapon. She ignores the discomfort, aiming at the target and firing with precise, steady bursts. The rifle handles well, with less of a kick than she expected. When she pauses to reload, Major Centauro says, "Cadet Catalina." 

"Sir," she says immediately. It takes a moment to flick on the safety, re-check her weapon, and sling it onto her shoulder, but then she salutes him. The sun is in her eyes; Rebecca ignores it, eyes watering but locked on the blurry figure of Centauro, the training officer in charge of sharpshooters. 

"Cadet Catalina here wants to be a weapons expert," Centauro says. "Isn't that right, Cadet?" 

"Sir, yes, sir," Rebecca says. The sun is briefly hidden behind what must be the only cloud in the sky. She blinks away the tears and studies the young woman standing next to Centauro, wondering why they're being introduced. At first glance, the young woman doesn't seem anything special-- she's wearing the same carefully wooden expression of all soldiers and cadets at attention, her eyes fixed just past Rebecca's shoulder. 

"This is Cadet Hawkeye," Centauro says. "She's training as a sharpshooter. Perhaps she'll be able to sway you over to my division as well." He puts a hand on Hawkeye's shoulder and chuckles. 

Hawkeye's expression doesn't change, but Rebecca is watching her closely enough to see the flicker of something like irritation in her eyes, the emotion gone as quickly as it came. In the privacy of her own thoughts, Rebecca agrees with the sentiment. Centauro is handsy and not well-liked among the female cadets. 

"I doubt it, sir," Rebecca says, careful not to sound anything but respectful. 

"Based on her admission scores, Catalina could be one of our best sharpshooters," Centauro continues, as though Rebecca hasn't said a word. "Unfortunately, she insists on wasting her talents as a weapons expert." 

Rebecca takes in a careful breath, lets it out slowly but quietly so that the sound doesn't betray her. She should have known. Centauro has been after her since she arrived. She doesn't answer, instead lets her features shift into the same blank expression Hawkeye wears. 

After a pause, Centauro chuckles again. "Well, a man can dream." He squeezes Hawkeye's shoulder and then releases her. "Catalina, I'd like you to show Hawkeye around." 

"Yes, sir, right away, sir," Rebecca says with another salute. She's grateful when Centauro doesn't follow along on the tour. Now she doesn't have to mince words. She shakes her head and makes a sympathetic face at Hawkeye as soon as Centauro is out of hearing distance. "It's too bad, you being a sharpshooter. You'll be stuck with Centauro all three years." 

Hawkeye's expression doesn't ease. Instead it turns, impossibly,  _more_  wooden. "I'm certain he will be an excellent instructor," she says stiffly.

Rebecca resists the urge to groan. Not  _another_  stick-in-the-mud. When she'd applied to the academy, she hadn't thought that everyone in the military would be as dull as dirt. "Sure, he's an excellent instructor. You'll be a damn good sharpshooter after he's through with you," she says. "But any of the female sharpshooters will tell you not to be alone with him." When Hawkeye's expression doesn't change, Rebecca says, "Ask Fox or Wavell. They're a year ahead of us, both sharpshooters." 

"I will," Hawkeye says after a moment, and then inclines her head a little. "Thank you." 

Rebecca just shrugs a little, awkward about the gratitude-- she would have warned any new female cadet, as the decent thing to do. "Come on. I need to return this gun to the armory, and then I'll show you around." 

Hawkeye follows along, quiet aside from the occasional question, as Rebecca shows her the academy. When they finish, Hawkeye offers her a quiet thank-you, and then seems to hesitate. 

Rebecca raises an eyebrow when Hawkeye just stands there, looking at her. At last, Hawkeye clears her throat and says, "About the major. Has anyone...mentioned him to the superintendent?" 

Rebecca, a little surprised that this has been percolating in the back of Hawkeye's mind the entire time, takes a moment to answer. "One of Fox and Wavell's yearmates, Gaskin, did. She failed the majority of her classes and wasn't invited back for the next year." 

"I see," Hawkeye says thoughtfully. Rebecca can't read her expression. "Thank you again." 

She waves off the thank-you. "Good luck." 

Rebecca watches Hawkeye go, and then dismisses the other cadet from her thoughts. They'll be in the same basic classes this first year, but after that, they'll rarely see each other other than at the mess hall or graduation ceremonies. 

Besides, Rebecca doubts this is the beginning of anything resembling a friendship. 

**  
**

It's apparently their destiny to meet at the firing range, Rebecca thinks, when she spots that blond head bent over a rifle. She hesitates, but the only available spot is right next to Hawkeye. Besides, you don't come to the firing range to chat. Oh well, she thinks to herself. They'll just exchange pleasantries and move on. 

"Hawkeye," she says with a polite smile. 

"Catalina," Hawkeye answers, offering her an equally polite nod. Her gaze flickers to the rifle in Rebecca's hands. "Having some trouble?" 

Rebecca grimaces a little. She might not plan to become a sharpshooter, but failing at anything pisses her off. Despite all her best efforts, the K-30 has been giving her hell. "Only because it's heavier than the others," she says. "You should see my shoulder." Even as she speaks, the bruised muscles twinge; this time she winces in discomfort rather than irritation. At least today she'd thought of wearing padding. 

"I had the same problem," Hawkeye says. If Rebecca didn't know any better, she'd think Hawkeye's expression was almost sympathetic. "You'll adjust." 

"Yeah, tell that to my shoulder," Rebecca grouses half-heartedly. Still, it's nice to know that Hawkeye isn't perfect. From what their instructors have been exclaiming over the past few weeks, they certainly think she is. She glances at Hawkeye's weapon, and quirks an eyebrow. "That's a Kingol-45, isn't it? I didn't think that was on the curriculum." 

"It wasn't, but Major Centauro heard sharpshooters prefer it in Ishval." Rebecca's surprise that Centauro's already training Hawkeye to serve in Ishval must show on her face, because Hawkeye's shoulders rise and fall in a minute shrug. "He's thinking of including it for the third year."

"And so he has you trying it out," Rebecca says, but Hawkeye either doesn't notice or decides to ignore the dry tone. 

"Hawkeye?" The tentative call comes from Anona, a fellow first-year whose owlish features and large eyes always make her look surprised and a little worried. She's another sharpshooter. Right now, she looks a lot worried and maybe even a bit tearful, holding her rifle with trembling hands. "I'm  _trying_  and  _trying_ , and I  _can't_  hit the target with the K-25. I saw you during the last class and--" 

"Your stance," Hawkeye says quietly, and Anona blinks. "When you're using a K-25, you want to adjust your stance slightly wider." Once she's set the rifle carefully on the ground, she takes Anona's rifle from her, aims at the target. "Like this." 

"Oh!" Anona's eyes widen, and the anxiety eases from her face. "Oh, that's so  _simple_! Thank you." She accepts the weapon back and returns to her spot, humming a little under her breath. 

It's a jaunty tune Rebecca doesn't recognize, and she makes a note to wheedle it out of Anona later. Right now, though, she's busy quirking an eyebrow at Hawkeye and saying, "You know, you're going to wind up the person everyone goes to for advice if you keep this up." 

Hawkeye's eyes narrow a bit, as though she thinks Rebecca's joking. "I don't think so," she says. "Besides, Major Centauro would have pointed out the problem with her stance tomorrow."

"Sure," Rebecca agrees with a grin. "But Anona's still going to ask you for help before him, every time." 

Hawkeye makes a quiet noise in the back of her throat, one that Rebecca's ears barely catch. It's not an amused sound, though, and Rebecca's grin widens as she pats Hawkeye on the shoulder. Past Hawkeye, she can see Anona whispering something into Freccia's ear, a tall, gangly cadet who has nearly as many freckles as there are stars in the sky. He looks relieved, glancing over at Hawkeye and whispering something back to Anona, who nods. 

Rebecca adds, "It's always someone's fate to be the mother figure each year. Didn't think it'd be you, but I am willing to admit I'm awful at first impressions." 

"Mother figure?" Hawkeye echoes, and now some of her blank expression is gone, replaced by something very much like dismay. "Catalina, I don't think--"

"Rebecca," she says, and laughs a little at Hawkeye's surprise. "You'll be Mother Hawkeye and I'll be Aunt Becky. Why not?" This time, she nudges Hawkeye with her elbow, lowers her voice. "Maybe we can even do something about the major." 

Hawkeye opens her mouth to answer, but then Freccia is there, looming earnestly over them both. "Anona said you helped her on her stance. Would you mind helping with mine too?" he asks hopefully. "Oh, and Catalina, did you know what Colonel Chamond was talking about in Weapon Basics today? Sometimes he says something like we're all expected to know it, but the only weapon I picked up before the academy was a slingshot, and that was only for hunting, so I--"

It isn't until dinner later that day that Hawkeye taps Rebecca on the shoulder and says, as though the conversation had been just a minute ago rather than five hours earlier, "Maybe we can do something about him." 

Rebecca grins. "I'm all ears."

"Good. But first--" For the first time since Rebecca's known her, Hawkeye actually smiles. It's a good look on her, easing the tension in her face and making her look, well, human. "Call me Riza." 

**  
**

 **II.**  

The knock at her door takes Rebecca by surprise. She comes out of a sound sleep with a quiet gasp, blinking sleep-crusted eyes first at the door and then at her clock, to reassure herself that yes, there really is someone knocking on her door at half-past midnight. Damn. 

Whoever it is, he or she won't be bearing good news, Rebecca knows. None of the town men is brave enough to sneak onto the academy grounds after curfew, no matter how tightly she's got a half-dozen of them twisted around her finger. No, it's going to be bad news from home for either her or her roommate Grant, who's flailing in her sheets and grumbling for Rebecca to answer the door. 

Rebecca goes over a mental check-list. Could be another attack by Creta-- her aunt's currently on the border there. Or maybe it's her cousin Nicholas, serving at Briggs. Her mother had written about a fever going through their hometown in the south. Had her mother or uncle caught it? 

She hesitates for a moment, because sometimes ignorance really is bliss, but then she squares her shoulders and walks over to the door. She sleeps in a sleeveless shirt and loose pants, so she doesn't bother throwing anything else on, just assumes an alert expression and opens the door. 

Then she blinks. "Riza?" The name comes out low and scratchy, and she clears her throat. 

Riza smiles weakly. "Sorry, I--" She stops, shrugs. "The superintendent called me, Anona, and Panzer into his office today. We're being deployed early, to Ishval." 

"To--" Rebecca stares for a moment before the words actually sink in. "You've still got a year left!" 

"We're needed," Riza says. 

"Anona's going to Ishval?" asks Grant, by now wide-awake. She scrambles upright. "She's going to-- I should go check on her." She grabs a robe where it's pooled on the floor next to her bed, throws it on, and brushes past Riza and Rebecca with a hurried good-bye. 

They are left alone to stare at each other, Riza with a tight-lipped expression, Rebecca with a half-dozen responses caught in her throat. 

"Ishval," she finally says. "When do you leave?" 

"Tomorrow," Riza says, and this time Rebecca laughs. The harsh, bleak sound makes Riza's expression tighten, but Rebecca can't help it. They're determined to throw Riza and the others into the middle of things, aren't they? 

In the two years Rebecca has known Riza, she's learned this: Riza conserves her gestures and speech, meting them out like there is a limited supply and once she runs out, she will be forever mute and paralyzed. 

Right now, though, Riza's rattled, her unease made obvious by her careless movements. She wanders Rebecca's room and hesitates before she finally sits down on her bed. Riza brushes her bangs away from her face, fidgets before she clasps her hands in her lap and meets Rebecca's eyes. 

"There was an attack on one of the barracks. We lost about twelve sharpshooters in one night." 

It takes a moment for the matter-of-fact sentences to make sense, and then Rebecca's stomach drops to the floor. "Damn." 

"Yes," Riza agrees with a bitter twist of her lips. 

Rebecca stands there for a moment, letting the facts settle into her mind, sink into her bones, and then makes a decision. "You need a drink," she declares, and heads over to her dresser. 

"Rebecca, alcohol is forbidden," says Riza, but there's an undercurrent of amusement breaking through the numbness, because they both know Rebecca's excellent at subverting the rules. 

"Do you see any alcohol?" Rebecca says with a wide-eyed look of innocence. She pulls the bottle from where it's concealed in a sock and points the bottle at Riza. It's an excellent red wine, smuggled in by Nicholas when he'd visited three months before. " _I_  don't. And if Captain Dardo wandered by, he'd say the same thing."

Riza wrinkles her nose at that. "Captain Dardo?" 

"Have you  _seen_  the color of his eyes? They're this gorgeous green shade, like emeralds," Rebecca says with a sigh. The man himself might not be handsome, his face scarred by a bad bout of acne, but oh, those  _eyes_. She'd been happy to flirt with him when he'd fixed that green gaze upon her. His looking the other way during room inspections hadn't hurt any, either. 

Riza looks skeptical, but she accepts the bottle when Rebecca offers it. "No glasses?" she asks with a twitch of an eyebrow, and doesn't look surprised when Rebecca pulls out two small glasses from the sock drawer. 

Rebecca pours them both a liberal amount of wine, and then holds up her glass in a silent salute-- to what, she isn't exactly certain. To Riza herself, probably, who she's going to miss like crazy and who's going off into a warzone, where there are hundreds of people dying by the day. 

Riza clinks her glass against Rebecca's, and downs the glass in two slow swallows. 

After a while, when they have drunk most of the bottle and Rebecca's thoughts are slow and syrupy, Riza asks, "Why did you join the military?" 

"Why?" Rebecca licks her upper lip, catching a few drops of wine with her tongue as she thinks, puzzling over an answer. If she is honest with herself, Rebecca joined for several reasons, the majority of them superficial. 

First, there was nothing better to do. She was born in a small, godforsaken town on the southern edge of Amestris, one that saw Aerugo soldiers overruning the streets almost as often as Amestrian. There, you'd had two options: tend the farm and endure constant attacks, or go to the academy and at least learn to defend yourself and others. Second, she had always been handy with machines and weapons back home, from the radio she'd repaired for her uncle to the ancient rifle her father had taught her to handle before an Aerugo soldier had killed him. She wanted to do something she was good at, even if that meant building weapons. Third, she'd hoped to find a gorgeous, unmarried general she could marry. Much to her dismay, the majority of generals seemed to be either married or ugly, or sometimes even a mixture of both. 

"Why did you join?" she counters, knowing it's a bit cowardly not to answer, but not liking any of the responses that rose to her lips. 

Riza is silent for a moment. "There is someone I have to protect," she says at last, and then frowns into her empty glass. "We all want to see Amestris at peace. He's...the best chance for that to happen."

At any other moment, Rebecca would crow in delight that Riza is talking about a man, but there is something about the way Riza says the last sentence that makes the brief amusement sputter and die in Rebecca's chest. It's the finality of it, she thinks, the complete assurance that whoever 'he' is, he can succeed where even King Bradley has failed, that makes Rebecca wonder at this man who's earned Riza's trust. 

After a moment, Rebecca takes Riza's glass from her and pours the last of the wine into it. "Let me know if you need any help," she says quietly, pressing the glass back into Riza's hand. "I'd be happy to serve under someone like that." 

Riza smiles then. "I will." 

**  
**

Rebecca is not surprised, six months after Riza leaves for Ishval, to be summoned into the superindendent's office. She has almost been expecting it. Each day brings word more of causalties, and every few weeks, another one of her classmates quietly vanishes from class, sometimes sending letters back to the academy, sometimes appearing on the causalty rolls a month or two later. 

"We need you in Ishval now that you've learned how to handle that new grenade launcher," the superindendent says. He looks a little tired, and she wonders if it bothers him, sending his students right into battle. 

Rebecca is almost relieved at his words. At least now the waiting was over. No more going to bed wondering if the next week she would be in Ishval. "Sir, yes, sir. When do I leave?" she asks with a salute, and nods when he tells her the next day. 

Then it is a mere matter to gather the few belongings she will be taking with her, prepare the rest to be sent home along with a letter to her mother (a letter written three days after Riza had left), and say good-bye to those still remaining in her year. 

Only about half are left, including Freccia, who startles her by throwing an arm around her shoulders and whispering into her ear not to get killed. He's grown into his height this past year, and the strength in his arm and the earnestness in his voice take her by surprise. When she brushes a kiss onto his cheek and promises him she'll do her best, the warmth of his skin lingers on her mouth for minutes afterwards.

Ishval, when she gets there, is even worse than imagined. No wonder Riza never tried to describe it in her brief letters-- it is impossible to describe the tension humming in the air, raising the hair on the back of her neck, or the constant explosions and screams, or the smell of death and fire overwhelming her senses until her eyes water and the bile rises in her throat. She learns to breathe through her mouth until her senses adjust as well as they ever will. 

She's assigned to the eastern part of the Kanda district. It isn't until three weeks later when she's sent to the Dahila district that she sees Riza. She's not surprised at the thinness in Riza's face, or the weary, hollow look in her eyes-- it's much the expression she sees when she looks at her own reflection, now. 

Still, Rebecca attempts a smile. "So. Hawk's Eye." As soon as she'd heard the nickname, she'd known who it belonged to. 

The corner of Riza's mouth rises briefly. "People like to talk."

"Especially when you save at least three different alchemists from assassination," Rebecca says.

Riza makes a rueful face.

"Lieutenant!" They both look up, but it's Riza that the man is smiling at. He and another man are carefully picking their way over rubble to them. The speaker waves at them, his cheerful expression at odds with the solemn look on his companion's face. The latter looks like he has not slept since the civil war began, shadows under his eyes like bruises. 

"Captain Hughes," Riza says. Rebecca notices that some tension has eased from her shoulders. When she speaks, though, her words are stiff and formal. "Rebecca, this is Captain Hughes and Major Mustang. Captain, Major, this is Lieutenant Catalina." 

Rebecca recognizes the major's name. It seems half the conversations in the barracks revolve around either Hawk's Eye or the Flame Alchemist, after all. 

"Catalina," repeats Hughes, his brow creasing. "You were in the Kanda district?" 

"Yes, sir," Rebecca says, and carefully doesn't think about Kanda. Despite her efforts, though, there is still the smell of blood, the memory lingering stubbornly like a stain upon her senses. 

Hughes nods. "I've heard good things about you."

"Thank you," Rebecca says, smiling and focusing on the compliment rather than what she'd done to earn the respect of her fellow officers. Anyway, he really is rather handsome. She wonders if he's seeing anyone. She glances at Riza, in time to see Riza look at Mustang with an expression Rebecca cannot read at all. 

"Catalina and I were at the academy together," Riza says, like that explains something, and maybe it does, because Mustang smiles a little. 

"I don't remember having so many--" he begins to say, tone faintly teasing, and then the smile drops off his face.

Someone dashes over, gasping, "Major, you're needed. Three blocks to the east." Mustang and Hughes exchange a look, and then Mustang leaves. 

Riza watches him go, and Rebecca watches her. There is a thought niggling at the back of her mind, a sudden suspicion. Then she sees it, sees the careful breath Riza takes as Mustang vanishes from sight, and knows she's right. This is the man Riza had mentioned before, the one she thinks will bring peace to the country.

"Excuse me, I should see what's going on," Hughes says with an apologetic look, and goes to catch the messenger who summoned Mustang away. 

Rebecca thinks about the man she just met, this Major Mustang, the Flame Alchemist. He hadn't seemed like much, but then, Rebecca readily admits she is  _awful_  with first impressions. Besides, if Riza has faith in him, he must be something special. And the stories she's heard of him can't  _all_  be exaggerations. 

"So," she says carefully. "Major Mustang." 

Riza huffs out a resigned sound. "Yes and no," she says to Rebecca's unasked question. "He  _is_  the man I'm protecting." Her hand goes up to the rifle strapped on her back, and she frowns. "I should go." 

Rebecca takes Riza by the shoulder, squeezes it gently. When Riza looks at her, she says, "I'll talk to you later. One, I want details. Two, I want to know if that Captain Hughes is single. I  _love_  men with glasses." 

Riza's face goes carefully blank for a moment, and then she says, "Oh, the captain is single." 

"Oh, good," Rebecca says, resisting the urge to rub her hands together. This is going to be fun. 

**  
**

They meet up again, three days later. Rebecca is covered in mud, and she's fairly certain she's pulled a muscle in her arm from when she'd pulled an injured man out of the line of fire. 

Still, she raises an eyebrow at Riza. " _Single_?" she says, voice hoarse from shouting. "I spent  _twenty_  minutes listening to the captain go on about this Gracia woman! I know more about her than I do people I spent three years in a dormitory with!" 

Riza's expression of surprise is almost believable, but Rebecca can see the faint glimmer of mischief in her eyes. "Oh, is he seeing someone? I had no idea." 

For a moment, the fact that they are in the middle of a war is pushed to the back of her mind. Rebecca narrows her eyes. "You realize," she says, "this means revenge." 

Riza laughs. It's a startling sound in this bleak, war-torn landscape, and Rebecca relishes it even as distant explosions reach their ears and they both turn to face the latest attack.


End file.
